


Someone

by Wordgrrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Gen, John Watson really made me mad, The Six Thatchers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordgrrrl/pseuds/Wordgrrrl
Summary: "He said he'd rather have anyone but you."John's words tore Sherlock apart, but they tore Molly apart as well. When John turns his back on Sherlock, it's Molly who offers him comfort.





	Someone

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story after watching "The Six Thatchers" (and hissing at the TV repeatedly). I never finished it, as sometimes happens, but when https://sherlockchallenge.tumblr.com/ posted "Tube" as a writing prompt, I thought, "Oh, hey. I should finish that Tube story I started six months ago." 
> 
> So I did. 
> 
> I edited it myself (so there will be mistakes), and I didn't have it Brit-picked because I'm a frequent visitor to England and like to think I know the lingo. (I don't, though. Not really.) 
> 
> I hope it's not terrible. Thank you for reading it!

 

 

 

“Anyone.”

 

Molly said the words with as much kindness as she could, keeping her face carefully blank. She hated saying them, hated doing John’s dirty work. At that moment, she didn’t even know why she’d agreed to it.

 

Sherlock looked as if she’d hit him. No, she amended: she’d hit him before, and he hadn’t looked like this.  At this moment, he looked like his world was splintering, and that if he so much as took a deep breath, it would shatter into a million pieces.

 

Trying to hold himself together, to keep himself from shattering, he turned on his heel, climbing the steps, his back turned to Molly, to Rosie, to John.

 

He put one foot in front of the other, trying to get away as quickly as he could. By the time he’d reached the street corner, his hands were trembling. He kept walking, oblivious to the cabbie who yelled at him for walking against the light.

 

A moment later, he felt the burn of his churning stomach as it rose in his throat, and he’d had to duck into an alleyway. Interesting, he thought as he braced his hands against the brick wall and vomited on the cobblestone. I’ve never been physically ill as a response to emotion before.

When it was done, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. There was a splash of vomit on his shoes, so he supposed it didn’t much matter if it was on his sleeve as well. He ran his fingers through his hair, wondering what to do next.

 

He should go home, but he couldn’t risk running into Mrs. Hudson. She’s want to ask questions and coddle him. And surely then he would break.

 

He stumbled into the nearest Tube station, onto a Victoria line train. He emerged at Vauxhall, and walked past the public urinal, the Starbucks, the headquarters for MI5, across the bridge. Anyone who passed him by would easily dismiss him as just another drunk, and for a brief moment he smiled at his unintentional disguise. No one would recognize him as the deerstalker-wearing detective who graced the news on occasion. Not this foul-smelling man, wandering aimlessly, his curly hair snarled from the wind, his eyes vacant.

 

He had no idea how long he walked. Eventually, he descended back into the Tube station, just another person tangled in the crush of the evening commute.

 

He found himself in another station and bought a train ticket, not really caring where it took him. He rather liked the idea of getting lost. He wondered if he’d be perpetually lost from now on. Because John didn’t want him; in fact, he wanted anyone but him.

 

And if he wasn’t important to John, then he wasn’t important to anyone.

 

At first, the train was crowded, full of commuters who just wanted to go home. He waited, hunched against the window, pretending to sleep with his face hidden by the upturned collar of his coat. After a half hour of stops and starts, he was nearly alone. Without the aid of his eyesight, he counted the people around him. There were four now: a college student, judging by the sound of turning textbook pages; and a young couple, judging by the murmurs between them. The fourth was an older woman with heavy footsteps. A musician, or even a conductor. He could hear her turning the pages of her sheet music in time with the symphony ringing scratchily through her ear buds.

 

The couple got off at the next station. Ten more minutes, and the college student took his leave. The musician took her exit a moment later.

 

He was finally alone, and he could finally shatter.

 

His phone rang in his pocket, startling him.

 

His heart felt a pinprick of hope as he fished it from his pocket, a spark that faded when he saw who was calling.

 

Molly Hooper.

 

He declined the call and pocketed the phone.

 

He ignored the second phone call, and the third, and the fourth.

 

The fifth time it vibrated, he fished it out of his pocket, irate. The battery had nearly expired, and he was going to use that two percent of battery to tell Molly to leave him alone.

But as soon as he answered, her frantic voice interrupted his would-be tirade. “Sherlock? Sherlock, it’s Molly. We need to talk, can you come to my flat? I’m alone. I’ll make you dinner, or we can order takeaway.”

 

He tried to speak, and found he couldn’t. Her voice rushed on.

 

“I just want to make sure you’re okay, Sherlock,” she said, and he could tell she was crying. “I know that John hurt you. And I hurt you, too.” That knowledge caused another fissure inside him, but he cleared his throat, ready to deny her words.

 

“Please, Sherlock,” Molly begged. “Where are you?”

 

“I’m—“

 

The phone fell silent, the battery gone. Swearing, he threw it as hard as he could, watching it shatter against the nearest door.

 

Then he shattered, too. Alone on the train, alone in the world, he pressed his forehead against the window and stared at his own reflection, at the tears that were running freely down his colorless cheeks. He hated the sobs that tore from his throat, but even when he shoved his fist against his mouth, they came.

 

Eventually, he fell silent, and realized then the train had reversed and was heading back for London. He was going back home, whether he wanted to or not.

 

A lone passenger boarded the train soon after, watching him warily. The man chose a seat far from Sherlock, and the detective didn’t blame him. He was burning up now, overheating, so he took off his coat and scarf and stumbled to the toilet long enough to blow his nose and splash water on his face. While he did this, he avoided peering into the mirror over the sink. He was afraid that he wouldn’t recognize the man reflecting back at him.

 

As soon as he could, he stumbled off the train and into the frigid night. He had no idea what time it was, only that it was very late.

 

Cold blasts of wind assaulted him as he walked, until his fingertips were numb and his toes burned with cold. His cheeks were sticky and chapped, and they, too, burned in the icy wind.

 

Just when he thought he wouldn’t be able to walk another step, he found himself at Molly Hooper’s flat. He pressed his numb fingers against the doorbell before leaning, then sliding down the wall. He was relieved to hear the clamber of footsteps down the stairs, then the creak of the front door opening.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Molly grabbed him and helped him rise to his feet, then over the threshold and into the warmth.

 

It took him a long time to climb the stairs to her flat, and idly he wondered why. He assessed his body’s basic needs. Food? Mrs. Hudson had forced him to eat a full English breakfast before Mary’s funeral, standing over him to make sure he actually ate.

 

Sleep? A few moments here and there, in which the nightmares would be so vivid he’d awaken standing in the bathroom, trying to scrub Mary’s blood from his hands.

 

Energy? He had to stop and rest after every step, leaning against the small woman beside him for support.

 

Finally, they made it to her flat, which smelled of warm vanilla.

Then she was shutting the door and locking it, and dialing a number on her own cell phone. “Greg?” he heard her say. “Yeah, he’s here. He’s… okay. I think. Will you call Mycroft? Thanks. I’ll call in the morning. Yes, he’s staying here tonight.”

 

She ended the call and then she was on him, touching his face, smoothing his wild hair as she did deductions of her own. His swollen eyes told her he’d been crying, and crying hard.

 

And he was cold. So cold. His skin was white and frigid to the touch. He’d been outside for hours. “Where’s your coat?” she asked. He shrugged listlessly. “Must have left it on the train.”

 

“Where have you been?” she whispered. “Everyone’s been worrying.”

 

“No one’s been worrying,” he whispered.

 

“I’ve been worrying,” she said.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

 

“And Greg’s had half his patrol cars out, looking for you. Mycroft has had his people prowling the city, too. People do care about you, Sherlock. People besides…”

 

She felt yet another swell of fury for John Watson. Smothering it, she lay her hands against his face, grimacing at the way his skin chilled her fingers.

 

“I’ve met corpses with higher body temperatures,” she muttered. “Are you hurt?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“You smell dreadful.” She wrinkled her nose. “I was about to take a bath. So you’re going in instead.”

 

He didn’t even argue with her, simply allowed her to lead him into the bathroom. He found the source of the vanilla; bath salts were gently fizzing at the surface of the bathwater.

 

She pointed to the tub. “Get in,” she said. “I’ll get you something to drink.”  

 

She closed the bathroom door behind her and made her way to the kitchen. Her hands were trembling as she tried to fill the teakettle with water.

 

“Get ahold of yourself,” she reprimanded. “You can fall apart later.”

 

The kettle’s whistle was just beginning to whine when she heard his anguished voice crying, “Molly!”

 

She burst into the bathroom without knocking, expecting to see him drowning in the tub or lying in the floor. Instead, he stood in the middle of her bathroom rug, his shirt unbuttoned, two of the buttons lying on the tile. Apparently the cold had robbed him of his dexterity, and in frustration he had simply yanked on his shirt until the buttons had come loose. Now he was struggling with the top button of his trousers, his bare stomach heaving in frustration.

 

“All right, Sherlock, take it easy.”

 

It had been a longtime fantasy of hers to undress Sherlock Holmes. But now that it was happening, there was no romance in her gentle, quick actions. He was trembling all over, but certainly not with passion.

 

She knelt to remove one shoe and sock, then the other shoe and sock, and when she straightened she avoided his gaze as she reached to unbuckle his trousers.

 

She stripped him down to his silk pants but she wasn’t about to strip him completely. “Do you want to take those off?” she asked.

 

He shook his head, his teeth chattering. “Just want to get warm.”

 

“In you pop, then,” she said lightly, holding his bare waist steady as he stepped over the lip of the bathtub. As he lowered himself into the water, she realized she’d probably never see Sherlock in a bathtub again, and she couldn’t even enjoy the view.

 

He was trembling even harder as his body fought to raise his temperature. Sighing, she reached for the flannel, dipping it into the water and drizzling the water over his exposed shoulders.

 

“I tried to talk some sense into him,” she said quietly. “John, I mean. I told him it was the grief talking, that he wasn’t being rational.”

 

“I made a promise…”

 

“One that you couldn’t possibly keep. No one could. Not even the great Sherlock Holmes. Why would you do that to yourself, Sherlock? Why would John even expect you to?

 

“If a human being could actually protect another human being all the time, then parents would keep their children safe always, wouldn’t they?” she reasoned. “There would never be another kidnapping or-“

 

Immediately, he was sitting straight up and struggling, the water sloshing over the sides. “What’s happened to Rosie?”

 

“What? Nothing! Sherlock! She’s fine! She’s with John!” She grabbed his shoulder, caressing it, murmuring to him that everything was fine.

 

He shuddered and fell silent, bowing his head. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she saw his bottom lip was tremoring. She sighed. “Let me wash your hair.”

 

She poured shampoo into her palm and then lathered his curls, grateful when the smell of vomit faded. Grabbing a plastic tumbler, she shielded his eyes with her hand, felt them flutter beneath her palm as she poured the water over his head. She repeated the ritual with a generous palmful of conditioner, using her fingers to gently work the knots from his curls. When that, too, had been rinsed away, he sighed, finally warming, and sank further into the water.

 

She watched him for a moment, wondering if he’d reach to wash his body. It looked instead like he might fall asleep right there.

 

She shrugged. Oh, well. He’d get clean enough just from being in the water.

 

“I’ll just get our tea,” she said.

 

But when she returned, Sherlock was already asleep, his face turned away, exposing his long, lean throat. She could see his pulse throbbing in his neck. It reassured her.

 

She sat on the closed lid of the toilet, wondering if she would wake him. Then she decided she’d let him rest, but he wasn’t going to do it alone. She was certain that If he slipped beneath the water, he’d lack the strength- and maybe the will- to lift his head. Instead, she padded into the living room, picked up the book she’d been reading and came back to the bathroom. She perched on the closed toilet seat and watched him for a moment. He was out cold, his eyes fluttering beneath the lids. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and his lips had parted in sleep.

 

She sipped her tea and opened her book.

 

She kept vigil for a few hours, adding teakettles of warm water every so often to stave off the bathwater’s chill.  When the water was cool and his skin warm, she murmured his name and he opened his ears blearily, blinking, trying without success to deduce his surroundings. Finally, his eyes focused on her.

 

“Time for bed, I think,” she said.  “Do you think you can get out of the tub by yourself?”

 

“’Course,” he muttered.

 

She wasn’t entirely convinced, but she nodded. “There’s a dressing gown, right here,” she said. “It might be a bit short on you.”

 

When she left the bathroom she didn’t close the door entirely, just in case.

 

He emerged a moment later, managing somehow to make her worn, cotton dressing gown look elegant. There was color in his cheeks from the warm water, and his half-dry hair was curling softly around his face. She’d made up the couch with pillows and extra blankets, but when he stepped toward it, she pointed to the bedroom. “That’s for me,” she said. “You’re sleeping in the bed.”

 

He wanted to protest, so she took his arm and led him into her bedroom. There, the decorative embroidered pillows were tossed carelessly in a chair, the duvet had been turned down, and the bed pillows were plump and smelled vaguely of her storage closet.

 

“Come on, now,” she said. “Into bed.” She meant no innuendo here; her days of being in love with Sherlock had long since come and gone. And besides, she suspected that Sherlock and John…

 

Well, she suspected.

 

She held the covers for him as he eased himself into the fresh linen. On the bedside table, she’d placed a mug of tea and a single piece of toast with peanut butter.

 

She propped him up with pillows, announcing that he had to eat something before going to sleep. He was about to protest that he wasn’t hungry, and she shut him up by putting a square of toast into his mouth. “Chew and swallow,” she said.  

 

“You sound like John,” he mumbled around his mouthful of bread.

 

She laughed bitterly. John. Her knuckles still ached because of John.

 

As she forced Sherlock to take another bite, she decided that, even if John had shown up on her doorstep at that moment, she wouldn’t have let him in.

 

Sherlock needed to rest, and besides she didn’t entirely trust herself.

 

She thought of that terrible moment: standing in front of Sherlock, with his own Goddaughter in her arms, and hearing her voice repeating John’s cruel message. John had spared himself the crestfallen expression that Sherlock had tried to hide, but Molly would never forget it.

 

By the time she’d carried Rosie back into the house, the lump in her stomach had dissolved into fury, and she had lay the baby down for a nap and had stomped back into the living room.

 

John was there, watching out the window as Sherlock walked away. John had been clenching and unclenching his fist, like he always did when he was angry, and he’d shook his head in disgust. “I hope I never see that bastard again-“ he’d muttered.

 

And that’s when she’d done it. That’s when she’d punched John Watson right in the eye.

 

“No more,” Sherlock said, and she realized he was talking about the toast. She nodded, in the present moment once again, and rearranged his pillows so he was reclining. Playfully, she tucked him in.

 

“There you are, nice and snug in your third favorite bolthole,” she said, remembering his words years earlier. She’d never found out which boltholes he’d preferred over her cozy flat, but at the moment, he looked content in this one. She patted his blanketed knee.

 

“Sleep, Sherlock,” she said. “It’ll all look better in the morning, yeah? If you need anything, just call.” She headed for the door.

 

“Molly?”

 

She paused in the doorway of her bedroom. “Yes, Sherlock?”

 

His eyes were already half-closed, his voice sleepy as he mumbled, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

 

“Because we’re friends, Sherlock.”

 

“But after today…”

 

She interrupted, her words rushing out. “And because, if I am ever forced to take sides, if I must make a choice between your friendship and John’s…” She took a deep breath. “I choose you, Sherlock. Every time.”

 

He nodded, his eyes shining with sudden tears. “Goodnight, Molly Hooper,” he whispered.

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” She turned off the light. “Sleep well.”


End file.
